


Unresolved

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, M/M, Pre-Series, Sex on Furniture, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around 3:20 AM, Lincoln decided he wouldn’t make any resolutions, this year. (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unresolved

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 New Year’s Mini-Round at Rounds of Kink with the prompts ‘resolutions’ and ‘leftover mistletoe’ and the kink ‘sex on, against, or under furniture’.

The dining table was going to be a bitch to clean up.

Not that Lincoln cared. Their whole mess was uncleanable anyway.

—

Around 3:20 AM, Lincoln decided he wouldn’t make any resolutions, this year. Not the resolution where he vowed to _put an end this shit between them_ , anyway. It was pointless. He’d tried and failed every other year for the better part of the last decade. He wouldn’t succeed now. The best evidence was that he came here tonight, stayed, and waited, thinking-hoping that Michael would show up any time now, hence he’d waited another five minutes, and another, and...

It was an unusual sensation, waiting for Michael like that. Their positions were usually reversed.

He’d gone through the various stages of annoyance, anger, indifference and worry at least twice tonight before falling asleep in Michael’s soft-like-butter leather armchair. It was the clatter of the main door being opened, closed and locked that drew him out of his slumber.

Michael was wasted. Coat unbuttoned and smart dark suit rumpled, tie hanging undone and white cashmere scarf haphazardly wrapped around his neck, only one glove on and a sprig of mistletoe in his other hand. Lincoln snorted.

Even wasted, Michael was kinda classy.

“I’m not wasted.” He leaned heavily against the door and shut his eyes, trying to regain his balance. “Just tipsy.”

And it was the truth, Lincoln had to admit it when Michael opened his eyes again and sashayed toward him in almost a straight line. He was swaggering a bit, partly because of whatever he’d drunk, partly because he was trying to make his short walk alluring to Lincoln, blue eyes too shiny, cheeks pink from excitement and from the cold, lips red and plump. Lincoln enjoyed the show.

Even tipsy, Michael was kinda hot.

Or especially when he was tipsy, shedding all hang-ups and inhibitions and looking at him as if he was about to sink to his knees and...

“Something’s wrong with this picture,” Michael announced while coming to brisk halt in front of Lincoln. “I’m the one partying, and you’re the one waiting for me at home?”

“You’ve been partying?”

“New Year’s Eve, big brother.” He bowed down, hands resting for support on the arms of the seat. He was in Lincoln’s space, smelling of cologne and perfume, sweat and smoke, and only marginally of alcohol. “I didn’t sleep with anyone,” he added in low, secretive voice. “Just so you know.”

“You never do. You’re a tease.” His mouth quirked at Michael’s miffed expression. There were some truths his pretty little brother didn’t like to hear. “Cock-tease, clit-tease, same difference. You flirt and you keep it at that.”

“I’ve saved myself for you and this is how you thank me?”

Lincoln rolled his eyes. He wasn’t jealous. He knew what the purpose of this little confession as well as Michael’s lateness was, and he wasn’t jealous. Their relationship was fucked up enough without adding jealousy on top of it.

Lincoln lifted his head and sniffed Michael’s suit, his neck, his face.

“Some of those perfumes aren’t yours, man.”

“Still. I didn’t fuck anyone.”

“You were supposed to be here about four hours ago.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”

He dangled the sprig of mistletoe above Lincoln’s head and moistened his lips in invitation. Lincoln looked up. The mistletoe was starting to fade, leaves and small white berries mistreated from hours spent in Michael’s hand or coat. It looked like some leftover stuff he would have picked and pocketed for lack of anything better.

Right.

Lincoln smirked and turned his head ever so slightly to avoid Michael’s mouth.

 _I want you to want me_ , Michael had blurted out once as Lincoln was easing his way inside his body, and Lincoln had stopped dead in tracks, eliciting pants and moans and desperate rolls of hips. The confession as much as the neediness had shocked him. Not surprised him _per se_ , but left him taken aback in their intensity.

“Don’t act like you don’t care, Michael, because we both know better.”

“Come on, Linc, don’t be an ass.” A leaf of mistletoe poked Lincoln in the cheek. “Kiss me.”

He cupped the back of Michael’s neck and held him firmly for a few seconds before forcing him down to his knees, head pushed down between Lincoln’s splayed thighs. No need for explanation or more incentive: the red lips went straight for his crotch, brushing, rubbing, sucking through the rough fabric of his jeans. Michael’s breath was coming in short puffs, hot and wet, even more so when Lincoln pressed harder, pushed his head further. A grunt broke out of Michael’s throat. He liked it; he always liked it when Lincoln was demanding, on the edge of forceful.

“You’re easy when you’re wasted,” Lincoln stated, moving his hips to accommodate him.

“I’m not wasted, and you’re the only one with whom I’m easy.”

“Isn’t that true?”

Michael opened his mouth wide around him, as if he wanted to engulf him through his clothes, too impatient and desperate to take the time to open his belt, his pants, and touch some skin.

Then, in a blink of an eye, he was up and a few feet away, panting because of the effort parting from Lincoln had required of him. Lincoln’s body coiled at the loss; then coiled some more when Michael hung the mistletoe on the ceiling light above his dining table. He sat against the table and watched Lincoln – or maybe challenged him – for instructions.

Lincoln straightened up in his armchair.

“Strip,” he ordered.

So much black and white in that fucking room. Michael’s clothes, the table, the ceiling light, the carpet, the walls; all black and white. It was odd, maybe unfitting. Lincoln wasn’t sure whether there was any black and white at all between them, everything shades of grey; or whether, on the contrary, some things were black to their core while others remained the purest, most perfect white.

Michael was complying and stripping for him, slow and casual as if they did that on a regular basis. They didn’t; they didn’t show off and linger on this kind of thing. Most of the time, they fucked, got it over with, and it was too frantic or practical for such games and subtleties. But tonight, Michael let one piece of clothing after another fall to the floor, until they were scattered around him and he was standing there, long body on display. The only colors were his blue eyes, red lips, and the dark pink erection curving up his belly.

He waited, arms at his sides, ass against the edge of the table. Lincoln considered the situation. That was as good as taking him to bed, thinking about it; maybe better. The table was some pretentious black polished wood thing, made for anything but dining on, let alone what he was about to use it for.

He whirled his index finger in the air to indicate for Michael to turn around and marveled at how fast his brother obeyed. He presented him his back and ass, hardly daring a look over his shoulder.

Lincoln left the comfort of the armchair and walked up to Michael. He stopped right behind him, barely touching him, and kissed his earlobe.

“How do you want it, Mike? Mmm?”

Lincoln hadn’t bothered undressing. No need. Later, there would be time for skin to skin contact, kisses and maybe embraces, but for now, more urgent matters were at hand. He opened his pants; Michael shivered at the movement, at the click of the belt buckle and the metallic sound of the zipper. He swayed, hesitating between pressing against Lincoln and bending over the table; the latter won over.

“Any way you feel like it.”

Not even a second to think about it. He was always so sure that he wanted Lincoln _any way_. Lincoln pushed him lower, his torso lying on the dark wood of the table, his ass up in the air and parted, offered to Lincoln’s hungry eyes. More color here, Lincoln thought eerily, the brown pink hidden and secretive, that most intimate part of Michael only for him. He touched it with the tip of his finger, watched it clench and relax, trying to draw him in.

He knelt behind Michael and licked. Soft and almost delicate at first, quickly hard and deep, thrusting his tongue, feasting on him, warmth pouring down his spine as Michael started to moan and beg that he needed him _now_. Lincoln secured his hips and trapped him against the table.

“You’d better behave and let me finish this, Michael, because this is all you get before I put my cock in you.” Michael was a mess, shiny from saliva and sweat, and Lincoln’s jaw hurt, but he wasn’t ready to stop and let go. He wondered for how long he’d been at it as if it was as vital as breathing. “Or maybe you prefer me to fuck you raw? You’d like this, wouldn’t you?”

He didn’t understand the answer at first, had to make Michael repeat it. “Any way you feel like it. Any way, you know that.”

He pulled back and got on his feet. Black and white. Michael’s pale body was making a stark contrast with the long black table. Lincoln laid his hand on Michael’s neck and slid it all the way down his back and between his buttocks, testing there how ready he was. Michael relaxed for him, and Lincoln slapped his ass. Just once, just to see more pink on that maddening display of black and white.

He touched the head of his cock between Michael’s reddened buttocks, the only warning he gave him before he thrust in rough and fast. Michael groaned and jerked beneath him. He plastered his torso against the table and pushed his ass higher, rotating his hips pleadingly when Lincoln refused to move and just stayed sheathed deep inside him.

“Such a pretty sight you make, Michael.”

It was the truth. The long lean muscles of his back, the perky ass split open by Lincoln’s cock, the arms extended, the hands with their elegant fingers gripping the table with despair... Lincoln laid one hand on the small of his back to still him and started to move, merciful at last.

“You like that? You think you can come just like that, without me touching your cock?”

Michael had his forehead pressed against the table, his face hidden from Lincoln’s inquisitive eyes, but Lincoln could see it when he gritted his teeth, both from anger and arousal. He pushed back onto Lincoln’s cock and asked, “That’s all you got for me?”

The heavy table shook and moved a few millimeters when Lincoln pounded into him. Then, Lincoln was stretching him, sneaking in two fingers alongside his cock, and Michael reared up. Too much and barely enough at the same time. Lincoln chuckled darkly at his cry of pain-pleasure and leaned down to whisper against his ear. The move pressed him deeper, up to the hilt, and he was pretty sure that it was painful for Michael; it certainly was painful – the best kind of painful – for him.

“That enough of me, babe?”

Lincoln straightened up to enjoy the view. Even whiter the knuckles of Michael’s hands as they curled around the edges of the table, holding on so tight that Lincoln feared for a second that he might break the stupid furniture or, worse, his fingers. He was panting hard, gasps of humid air staining the black wood, and writhing helplessly beneath Lincoln; pinned to the table, nailed down by Lincoln’s cock and sheer will.

“I never have enough of you,” Michael breathed out.

That was Lincoln’s downfall, those few words. Unfair, he thought, as he moved unevenly into Michael. So unfair to push Michael towards his limits, and yet be the one to lose it first.

He understood why Michael’s knuckles were so white, why he was holding so hard onto the table and fucking back so keenly onto him. He would admit his mind was blurry from the long night, from the roughness of their encounter, from the pleasure. But he did get it when Michael started to clench around him, his cheek – not his forehead anymore – pressed into the table and displaying to Lincoln his profile and his mouth opened on silent shouts of pleasure: coming without Lincoln having to reach around to hold and stroke him, erection carelessly pushed and straining against the table.

—

Lincoln helped him up, after, turned him around gently and kissed him under the mistletoe; his mouth, his cheek, his temple, a string of kisses too chaste after what they’d just done. Michael murmured in appreciation and protestation all at once, loving the softness yet wanting a damn real, wet, sloppy kiss. There was innocence in Michael’s claim and touch, and Lincoln thought once again of wrong and right, black and white, how much of the white seeped into their black and vice-versa.

He squeezed his eyes against a headache. Couldn’t think about this, not now.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said. He spoke into Michael’s ear as if it was a secret, as if someone could hear them. “I want you in me. Later. When you can again.”

Michael pulled back and watched him, fire in his eyes despite his exhaustion. His hips bucked forward of their own will and Lincoln chuckled pleasantly, nothing like the grim bark of laugh he’d let out earlier. He would have bet Michael was imagining it already, picturing himself lying comfortably on his back while Lincoln straddled him. He liked it this way because he could watch and caress Lincoln, and taste him when he came all over his hand or chest.

Lincoln could picture it too, to be fair, Michael all blue eyes and red lips, a flush spreading down his torso to match the darker pink of his cock. More color, less white and black. That appealed to Lincoln.

Michael nodded and kissed him back.

The mistletoe was still hanging from the ceiling light. Lincoln didn’t pay attention to it; it was the table that piqued his interest one last time before he and Michael headed to the bedroom.

The dark polish of the wood was stained with sweat and saliva where Michael had been held down and had panted and cried out. And where he’d come, three neatly round puddles of semen; white on black.

END


End file.
